


Rude

by teacass (Fushigi)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ALSO i have no idea why there's always whipped cream in my deancas fanfiction but i think i like it, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista Dean, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining Dean, Whipped Cream, explicit language i guess?, rude customer Castiel, shamelessly indulging my coffee shop AU obsession, we all know dean likes to curse so there it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fushigi/pseuds/teacass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can manage rude customers, even if they’re that good-looking.<br/>Or, well, he thinks he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rude

**Author's Note:**

> So I had some weird customers recently and then this happened.

Dean is having a pretty good day. The morning rush was a bit challenging, but now, in the afternoon, the rhythm of customers is quite steady. People are returning home from work and they’re usually in no hurry, so he can spend some time chatting with them and enjoy preparing their orders. The tips are okay, too; some nice elderly lady was really generous today, and there were these two teenage girls who kept giggling, ordered 'two venti caramel Frappuccinos with extra whipped cream', and stuffed a five-dollar bill in his tip jar, together with their phone numbers. Then they left—blushing, giggling, and sipping at their caramel _Crappuccinos_ —and Dean has spent a good minute laughing at them.

It’s Thursday, so he’s alone on his shift and has no one to talk to, but that’s okay; one more hour and Benny will come for his evening shift and Dean will finally go home and get ready for another busy day at the coffee house.

One more hour seems like nothing, but then that one guy comes in.

He’s handsome, so Dean stares because he can appreciate handsome and pretty customers, whether they’re a guy or a girl. Benny kind of used to make fun of him for that but right now, if he was here, he would just smack Dean with his dishtowel and send him to take the guy’s order.

But Benny is not here, so Dean goes all by himself, turning his smile up to 100 per cent of charm. The guy is wearing a suit and a briefcase but that’s not the first thing Dean notices about him. He has a mop of unruly dark hair on the top of his head and a matching dark five-o’clock shadow on his jaw. Yeah, ‘handsome’ seems a bit insufficient.

Dean opens his mouth to say something but then he notices the guy’s talking on the phone. Dean frowns and waits for him to end the conversation; he _hates_ when customers use their phones when making their orders.

The guy doesn’t.

“One grande latte, please,” he says to Dean and then, to his phone, “No, Balthazar, I do _not_ want to meet your friend tonight, I have a lot of work to do.”

Dean grits his teeth. “Take-away?” he asks.

The guy nods.

“Three sixty,” Dean says and glares at him, but the guys does not notice it, looking for money in the pockets of his ugly beige trench coat. Because it’s ugly, Dean decides.

“Yes, we are still meeting on Saturday,” the guy keeps saying and then throws a ten-dollar bill on the counter.

Dean glares a bit harder. “Do you maybe have any change,” he asks flatly.

The guy looks at him, probably for the first time since he’s entered the café, and shakes his head.

Dean sighs, gives him the change, and asks, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Castiel,” the man answers matter-of-factly and turns around to walk away just when Dean opens his mouth to ask him to repeat.

Okay. Rude. But he can manage rude customers, even if they’re that good-looking.

He makes the coffee, not really paying much attention to it, grabs a marker, and stares at the coffee sleeve. What was that name? Something starting with C, that’s for sure. And something kind of weird. Collin? No, not weird enough. Carlos?

“Casper?” he tries and places the coffee on the counter, looking around the café. The guy’s sitting right there, by the table, poking at the screen of his phone. “Casper!” Dean calls again, louder this time.

The guy looks at him over his shoulder.

“Your latte,” Dean says.

“My name is Castiel,” the guy says and walks over.

“Yeah, all right.”

Castiel covers the cup with a lid and sends Dean one last look. “Thank you,” he says and walks away.

Dean remains annoyed for the rest of his shift.

 

***

 

Dean didn’t think he would meet him again, but there he is, standing at the counter and ordering a latte again.

“Take-away?” Dean asks, trying to keep his face straight and pretend he doesn’t recognise him. The guy still looks too handsome for his own good, but at least this time he’s not on the phone.

“Yes, please. Could you add some praline syrup this time, though?” the man asks and gently places a five-dollar bill on the counter.

“That’ll be four fifteen,” Dean deadpans. “What’s your name?”

The guy looks at him for a few seconds and then, “Castiel,” he answers and throws the remaining eighty-five cents into Dean’s tip jar.

“Coming right up,” Dean chirps and turns away before the man has a chance to kill him with his stare. So yeah, Dean remembers his face but his name? No fucking way, you rude-talking-on-the-phone-weirdo-ass-customer.

He writes the name on the sleeve—the right one, this time—and goes back to the counter. “One grand latte with praline syrup for Castiel!”

The guy stands up from his chair. “The accent falls on the last syllable,” he comments and takes his coffee.

Dean shrugs and smiles his most professional, I-don’t-give-a-fuck smile.

“Thank you, and good bye,” the man says and after several more seconds of squinting at Dean he turns away and walks out of the café.

So long and good night, asshole, Dean thinks.

The guy is back within five minutes. He strides towards the counter and looks Dean directly in the eyes.

“Excuse me, but that latte is cold.”

Dean blinks at him. “No. It’s not. I just made it, like five minutes ago.”

“Nevertheless, it is still cold.”

“That’s fu—that’s impossible. I just gave it to you and it was hot,” Dean argues.

The guy places the coffee cup on the counter. “Check for yourself, then,” he orders and glares at Dean. “I will not drink a cold latte.”

Suit yourself, Dean wants to say, but instead he takes the cup and takes off its lid. “You want me to drink it or what,” he asks tiredly.

“I don’t know,” the man says. “I just want my coffee to be hot.”

All-fucking-right, Dean thinks and turns around to make another latte, and does not spare another look at the most irritating customer ever.

 

***

 

He was kind of sure the guy would not come back after that, but the next day he appears at the counter just when Dean finishes doing the dishes.

“Three,” he says flatly and Dean just gapes at him for about thirty seconds.

“Three _what_ ,” he asks without any inflection whatsoever. He thinks he’s cursed with the most annoying guy on the earth and he doesn’t know what to do. “Three coffees? Three muffins? Three wishes? I’m sorry, I’m not a telepath. Yet.”

The guy just points to the refrigerator.

Unfortunately, apart from coffee, Dean also sells ice cream, fresh fruit juice, and some other weird-ass desserts.

“So, three scoops of ice cream,” Dean mutters. “That’ll be two twenty.”

“Can you add some whipped cream to that?” the guy asks.

“Two fifty, then.”

The guy just nods and then goes on to recite the flavours of ice cream to Dean. When Dean pours some whipped cream onto it and gives the ice cream to him, the guy squints and asks, “What kind of whipped cream is that?”

“That’s our own whipped cream. We make it.”

“Yes, but how is it made?” The guy is still looking at him and it makes Dean kind of uncomfortable.

“You know. The cream, some sugar syrup? It’s all very natural.”

The guy makes a face. “Ugh. I thought that was normal whipped cream.”

Suddenly, Dean wants to smack him in the face with the ice cream he’s still holding out to him. “Well, it’s not. But our whipped cream is probably even better than the ‘normal’ one.”

“Yeah, sure.” The guy still doesn’t look convinced and Dean can’t help but look daggers at him. “Good bye, then.”

Dean grips the edges of the counter and takes a deep breath to calm himself.

 

***

 

The my-latte-is-cold, I-only-eat-normal-whipped-cream, I’m-too-cool-to-be-kind guy is back the next day and Dean rolls his eyes when he sees him.

“Hello, welcome to our café, what can I get you?” he asks because he’s having a good day and he’s not going to let a random rude stranger ruin it with his attitude.

“A grande latte, please. Take-away,” the man says and places a ten-dollar bill on the counter.

Dean does not try to ask for change, but he can’t help but ask, “No syrup?”

“No syrup, thank you,” the guy answers.

Dean gives him the change and watches as the guy throws it all in his tip jar. He clears his throat a bit uncomfortably and asks,” What’s your name?”

“You know what my name is.” The man stares at him with a very serious face and Dean blinks, surprised.

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry, I don’t remember—”

“It’s Castiel,” the guy hisses and turns away to sit on the nearest chair.

Dean takes a moment to cool himself, trying not to think of the tip he just got from his by far the rudest customer (even if he’s the one Dean remembers best), and convincing himself that he has every right to be indifferent towards the guy. Remembering everyone’s name is definitely not his obligation, right? Especially if the guy is named like a proper weirdo.

He pours milk and foam into the cup, adds a perfectly good espresso and makes sure everything’s hot enough, and then grabs a pen to write a name on the sleeve. All right. What was that? Cas—Cas-what? Dean’s terrible with the names, really. All he’s got in that dumb head of his is _Casper_ , so he winces, writes ‘Cas’, and goes over to the counter.

“One grande extra hot latte for Cas!” he calls and tries to smile at the guy when he stands up from his seat.

“It’s _Castiel_ ,” he repeats angrily and takes the coffee from Dean.

“I’ll remember, promise,” Dean says and smiles again, because when the guys—Castiel—is the one who’s getting annoyed, it is kind of funny and he doesn’t really mind anymore.

 

***

 

“Cas,” Dean says. “Your latte is ready.”

Cas walks over and screws up his eyes. “You know that it’s not my name, don’t you, Dean.”

He has started to call Dean by his name a few visits ago and Dean would deny it even on his deathbed, but his heart kind of fluttered in that moment and hasn’t stopped since. Yes, he’s wearing a nametag on his chest, and yes, many customers take advantage of that and call him by his name, but _this is Cas_. And Dean kind of has a crush on him now. Kind of.

Benny can’t stop laughing at him.

“I really can’t seem to remember your full name, sorry,” Dean answers and cracks up a smile.

Cas sighs. “All right, then. But could you please add some whipped cream to that coffee, then?”

So, okay, Dean is crushing on him. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate him, too.

“Gee, couldn’t you say that when you were making your order?” he grumbles and adds whipped cream to the receipt. “Fifty cents.”

Cas tosses a five-dollar bill on the counter.

“Dude,” Dean gasps. “Change, please?”

“I don’t have any.” Cas shrugs.

Dean mutters under his breath and gives him his change, which Cas immediately throws into his tip jar. His cheeks colouring brightly, Dean turns around for the whipped cream machine.

He makes a mistake of looking at Cas while shaking the machine and ends up blushing even more, then spilling some whipped cream onto the counter. Cas doesn’t comment, just takes his coffee and goes away without a word.

 

***

 

Dean hates selling ice cream, especially when they’re really frozen and when ice cream waffle cones keep on breaking.

It’s Saturday and the flow of customers is huge and tiring. Dean’s hand is hurting from putting ice cream onto waffle cones but Benny is busy with fresh fruit juices so he has no other choice but to sell ice cream, over and over and over again.

The mother with three screaming children finally goes away with their ice cream and Dean sighs with relief when he sees that Cas is the next guy in the queue. He has never seen him in the café on a weekend but he ignores it and goes to the counter, preparing himself for making a grand latte.

“Three scoops of ice cream,” Cas says without any smile and Dean deflates a bit.

“Sure,” he mumbles and goes over to the refrigerator.

“Chocolate, please,” Cas adds.

Dean curses him in his head with all he has. Chocolate is the worst, the most frozen and the hardest to scoop. He puts the first scoop on the cone and, obviously, it cracks.

“Oh, fff— _frick_!” he protests and throws the whole cone onto the floor where it breaks into million pieces.

Both Benny and Cas look at him wordlessly. Dean grits his teeth and takes another cone, and then Cas says, “You seem to lack patience today.”

“Well, you lack your damn business,” Dean hisses and pushes the chocolate scoop onto the cone, as if daring it to break again. Fortunately, it doesn’t.

“Excuse me?”

“Because that’s none of your damn business!”

Behind him, Benny starts laughing hysterically, but Dean ignores him, stuffs the ice cream into Cas’ hands, and turns away. He needs a break. Right. Fucking. Now.

Benny can handle another ice cream order.

 

***

 

Oh god, he’s got tattoos.

That’s the first thing that appears in Dean’s head when he sees Cas on Monday. It’s finally warm outside and the sleeves of Cas’ shirt are rolled up to reveal two small tattoos on his right arm. Dean cannot really tell what they are, not from the upside down, but he can’t help but stare for a moment.

He’s a sucker for tattooed guys.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says and looks Dean right in the eyes. Dean tries not to show that he’s affected in any way. Not by his bright blue eyes, his messy hair, and his permanent sexy scruff. Or his fucking tattoos.

He’s not.

“Hi, welcome to our café, what can I get you?” he asks and smiles a bit stiffly.

“Only water this time, please.”

“Two dollars,” Dean answers and hands him the bottle.

“Two dollars for water?” Cas stares at him unbelievingly. “What kind of water is it? Made of diamonds?”

Dean frowns and purses his lips. “Sorry, I’m not the one responsible for the prices. It’s either two dollars or no water for you.”

“Fine,” Cas snaps, throws him a two-dollar bill, and grabs the bottle from Dean’s hand, and then, without saying anything else, he struts out of the café.

Dean is still pissed even when he’s finally back home from work.

 

***

 

He hasn’t seen Cas for the whole week and he’s a bit upset. Not that he’s too obvious about it, but Benny notices anyway.

“He’ll come by,” he says, laughing. “It’s the weekend. Remember last Saturday?”

“When I threw his ice cream on the floor and snapped at him? Yeah, I remember,” Dean says and busies himself with doing the dishes.

The café is packed with people and they’re both a bit tired, but the customers keep on coming in. Dean dreams of going on a break but right now he’s got his hands in the foam up to his elbows and Benny’s manning the register and taking orders.

“Welcome to our café, what can I get you today?” Benny roars, sounding a lot more energetic than Dean feels at the moment. He wants to turn around and comment on that, but then he hears the customer’s order—or rather, his voice.

“One grande latte, please,” Cas says and Dean is definitely turning around now, looking at him and forgetting about the dishes.

“Take-away?” Benny asks and turns to wink at Dean.

Cas actually _smiles_ , then.

“Actually, I would like to drink this one here,” he says politely and Dean is still staring, because, whoa, is he being _kind_? He has never been kind to Dean. Apart from his tips, he has never even smiled at him properly.

What. The. Hell.

“All righty! Would you maybe like some syrup or whipped cream with that? Maybe some cake? Ice cream?” Benny asks.

“No, thank you, just a regular latte,” Cas repeats and he sounds so freaking nice that Dean keeps on staring at him.

“Okay, that’ll be three sixty.”

“Here you go.” Cas proceeds to put the change onto the counter and Dean feels a teeny, tiny burst of pride; at least he always gets a tip, and Benny does _not_.

“Thanks. One regular latte, comin’ right up! You can take your seat now, man, we’ll bring it to you when it’s ready,” Benny promises.

“Thank you very much,” Cas says and smiles again.

Dean cannot get enough of that smile, even if it’s not directed at him.

“Dude,” Benny says, preparing an espresso while Dean furiously scrubs at the dishes. “I’ve no idea what you got against the man. He’s all right in my book.”

“Yeah,” Dean grumbles. “Not usually, he’s not.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like your ugly face,” Benny laughs and Dean throws a bit of foam at him.

“Shut your ugly fucking face, you fucktard,” Dean hisses.

Benny makes him take the order to Cas and Dean almost trips when Cas looks at him. He doesn’t smile, though, and Dean is again left with a sour feeling which sticks to him throughout the whole day.

 

***

 

And then, suddenly, Dean promises himself to do everything to see that smile again.

At first, he tries being nice. He smiles, just as he does at any other customer, and he does not grumble when Cas gives him a ten-dollar bill for his three-sixty-worth latte. He pours him a generous amount of milk foam, he even adds him a sprinkle of chocolate chips onto his whipped cream once.

Cas’ face remains serious.

Then, he tries flirting. He smiles even more, jokes a bit, tries to sneak in some innuendo. Cas just stares at him and, one time, does not tip him even a cent.

Dean doesn’t know what to do anymore, so he comes back to being his old, usual grumpy-around-Cas self.

“What’s your name,” he asks just in spite.

Cas ignores him and goes to take his seat without a word.

 

***

 

Next time they see each other, Cas is with some tall blond guy and Dean has just finished flirting with a pretty customer who ordered a tall caramel Frappuccino, gave Dean a generous tip and her number written on a napkin. Dean is still smiling when he looks up from her name— _Lisa_ —and notices Cas standing right in front of him, with an ever-present frown on his handsome face.

A smile slips off Dean’s face immediately.

“Hello,” Cas says. “Two fresh fruit juices, please.”

Dean tries not to scream. He hates making fresh fruit juices.

“Orange or grapefruit?”

“One orange, one grapefruit,” the man standing right beside Cas says.

Of course. Two different kinds of juice, the worst fucking scenario _ever_.

“Sure,” Dean breathes out. “Coming right up.”

He has no idea who the blond guy is, but he and Cas seem really close, and so Dean calls Lisa right after his shift, just to wipe off the image of the two of them sitting there, by the window, and sipping their fucking fresh fruit juices.

 

***

 

Cas smells really nice.

Dean has noticed it a long time ago, when they first met, but sometimes he’s still a bit dumbstruck when Cas stands at the counter to make his order. With the ever-lasting smell of coffee that is surrounding Dean, it would be impossible for him not to appreciate the fresh smell of a really good perfume that sticks to Cas.

He would really like to push his nose into Cas’ neck and breathe in.

Cas stares at him a little harder than usually but Dean cannot be bothered anymore. They have been meeting in that café for more than three months now and Dean has no idea how to change the nature of their relationship. Cas seems to simply hate him so there’s really nothing much left to do on Dean’s part.

Cas orders his usual, very boring and very regular latte and Dean doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t react when Cas throws a tip into his jar, doesn’t react when he asks for additional whipped cream, and again gives him a five-dollar bill.

Dean really, really doesn’t care anymore, because it seems that everything he does goes way past Cas.

“My name’s Castiel,” Cas reminds him and maybe Dean would be surprised at his polite tone if he still cared.

“Yeah, I know,” he says.

“Oh. All right.”

Dean writes ‘Cas’ anyway and places the cup on the counter, staring the guy straight in the eyes and not even trying to smile.

“You seem tired,” Cas notices.

“I had to get up at four thirty,” Dean answers flatly. “I _am_ tired.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, then.” Cas looks at his coffee, bites his lower lip, and looks up at Dean again. “Mhm. There’s something wrong with my drink.”

Dean can’t help it this time, so he rolls his eyes. “ _What_ ,” he demands.

Cas is still looking him in the eyes. “It doesn’t have your number on it,” he deadpans.

Dean chokes on air.

And then he turns on his heel and leaves the room. He needs a break, _now_.

 

***

 

So maybe, just _maybe_ , Dean kind of overreacted when they have last seen each other.

But that’s all Cas’ fault. He shouldn’t have tried to make fun of him by using the cheesiest pick-up line in the history of pick-up lines. Even Dean would never use that one. Probably.

So when Cas enters the café a week after that, Dean decided to pretend that nothing happened. Maybe Cas will just order his boring latte and go away without a smile, as usual.

Dean really hopes he will.

But then Cas stops in front of the counter, looks at Dean, and says, “Six o’clock at the thirty sixth.”

He almost sounds bored, and his face doesn’t reveal any of his thoughts. Dean blinks and stares at him.

“…what?” he asks incredulously.

And then the impossible happens.

Cas blushes.

Or at least that’s what it looks like to Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says hurriedly. “What I meant to say was are you free to meet me at six o’clock tomorrow at the thirty sixth street?”

“Why at the thirty sixth?” Dean asks dumbly, for now ignoring the part in which Cas is kind of asking him out.

Cas is _asking him out_.

“I know a very good steakhouse there,” Cas explains hurriedly. “I really like what they serve there—Unless, oh my god. Are you a vegetarian? We can always go somewhere else. I’ll just—I’ll cancel the reservation—”

Oh dear god, he already made a reservation?

“You already made a reservation?” Dean asks before he can stop himself.

And now, there’s no mistaking it. Cas _is_ blushing.

“No—I mean, yes, but not for us. I mean, I made a reservation for me and my brother but as it turns out he will not be able to meet me there and, well, since I already have a table for two booked and—well, I thought that maybe—”

Oh. My. God.

“Why do you want to meet me outside of the café?” Dean asks. He has to know. “You hate me.”

Cas blinks several times and then spends a good minute just staring at him. “I do not hate you, Dean.”

“You don’t?” Well, that’s the first. “I’m pretty sure you hate me. I know _I_ hate _you_ ,” Dean says and laughs and oh no. That wasn’t good. That was terrible and he should stop laughing right fucking now because Cas’ face falls and he looks down as if he’s been slapped.

“Oh,” he mutters.

Dean is officially the dumbest person ever.

“No, oh god, I didn’t mean that! I don’t hate you. It’s just that you’re my rudest customer—No, I don’t mean it like that,” he adds when Cas looks up at him again and frowns and he looks really really hurt now. “Well, maybe I do, but that’s because it’s true, isn’t it?”

“But I always tip you,” Cas says defensively.

Dean scratches his nose nervously. “Yeah, you do, but that doesn’t change that you’re not… nice. Sorry, man. You’re just not.”

“Oh,” Cas repeats and there’s that hurt puppy dog face again.

“But that doesn’t mean I hate you, not really,” Dean says.

Cas squints. “I’m not sure I understand. I think it’ll be better if I just—go now,” he says slowly and turns around.

And oh no no no, Dean is not having any of that.

“What? Hell, no, come back here!” Dean runs out after him from behind the register and grabs him by the arm. Cas just stops and stares. “Erm. So you, like, wanna go out with me?” Dean asks and smiles sheepishly because there’s nothing else he can do.

“I thought I made that clear,” Cas says flatly. “But then you said you hated me so I think the date is out of the question now.”

“But _then_ I said I don’t really hate you,” Dean laughs nervously.

“And you called me rude.”

“…because you are?” Dean slowly steps back and shrugs, still grinning like an idiot he is.

Cas stands there, in the middle of the café, for a few moments, just looking at Dean with that unreadable face of his, with his hair even more tousled than usually, his small tattoos visible from under his rolled up sleeves. Some of the customers sitting by their tables are looking at them curiously but Dean is way past caring. Now he just needs Cas to make up his mind and say something. Anything.

And then he does.

“One grande latte, please,” he orders and struts back to the counter to place a ten-dollar bill there.

Dean feels his heart shattering in his chest the way that ice cream cone shattered on the floor some weeks ago but he tries not to show it and just goes to take his money. He avoids looking at him. He will avoid looking at him forever now because he has made a gigantic fool of himself and refused to go out with that stupid, stubborn, rude, attractive piece of sh—

“And your number, please,” Cas says then. “So that I can contact you and discuss the details of our date.”

Oh.

Rude.

**Author's Note:**

> The prices are made up (kind of; I may have googled a Starbucks menu to check how much a latte costs there). Dean does not work at Starbucks and actually I have no idea what kind of a cafe is that, and I never even bothered to come up with its name. Hope you'll like it anyway :)


End file.
